Sand and Moonlight
by Shimizu Hitomi
Summary: FE6,7. Against a backdrop of political turmoil, two friends find their relationship beginning to shift in unexpected directions. Cecilia/Percival, politician!Priscilla vs. scheming!Serra, other...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem. I just like playing with the characters.**

**Summary:** FE6,7. Against a backdrop of political turmoil, two friends find their relationship beginning to shift in unexpected directions.  
**Pairings:** Cecilia/Percival, implied/mentions of Oswin/Serra and others.  
**Rating: **T, for violence, themes.

**Notes:** Actually this is a one-shot (in my head), but it got, uhhh, "kinda" long... The fic itself ties in with "The Deception of the Thrush" and "No Time for the Dead" and the rest of the stories in my fic-verse, but reading them first is unnecessary. I've been playing around with the basic idea for this fic for quite a while, but was recently (early April) inspired by GORGEOUS Cecilia/Percival fanart that I found on Japanese fansites... Anyway, anything you recognize as snippets of support conversations/game script was snagged from GameFAQs and reworked by myself while referencing the original Japanese from Pegasus Knight, though I tried to keep it to a minimum. (**4/25/08**: fixed for minor inaccuracies) (**6/04/08**: moar fixes, mostly typos)

* * *

**Sand and Moonlight**

They held the funeral on a gray, overcast afternoon. A dark sea of mourners gathered at the city gates, and though she had known well enough that Prince Mildain was much loved by the people -- for indeed, had not she loved him just as well? -- the sight took Cecilia by surprise. Men and women, elderly and young alike, many of them weeping openly: it seemed as if the entire city had come to pay their respects.

The crowd parted down the center as the procession filed past, through the silent streets of the white capital. In the front marched the royal guard, solemn and stately in their blues and golds. Behind them, six black horses drew the royal hearse, accompanied by the pallbearers. The king himself, lost and white and small in his dark ceremonial robes, followed them like a pale ghost, flanked at a respectful distance by his advisers and distant male relations. Next came the Grand Admiral and Great General Douglas, stiff and straight-backed, and at last, Percival, with she to his left and Klein to his right, looking young and awkward in the new uniform that marked his recent promotion. Still behind them were representative detachments from their respective divisions: seamen and knights, mages and archers.

It had been a riding accident. Cecilia had refused to believe it at first. Prince Mildain had always been acknowledged as a most excellent horseman, and the pedigree of his magnificent white stallion had boasted generations of illustrious sires. It had been inconceivable to her, then, that such a horse could have shied during what had been a routine outing, that such a rider could have been thus thrown to his death... But Lord Douglas himself had been present at the scene -- had, in fact, been the first at the prince's side. And Lord Douglas was a true and honorable man.

They had not had time to mourn, Percival and Klein and she. Poor Klein, to have been struck by the news just as he was beginning to juggle his new responsibilities as Archer General. His grief, at least, was etched clearly in his face, to those who knew to look for it. Percival, on the other hand... In the chaos of the past few days, they had not had a chance to speak. And now, as he strode at her side, eyes fixed straight ahead, expression grim and bleak, she realized that she could not read him.

Some time later, they reached the Hall of the Dead some distance outside the gates, where the prince would be laid to rest among the remains of the ancient kings and queens of Etruria whose blood had run through his veins. The columns of soldiers behind them split, marching on ahead to take a roundabout course back to the capital, leaving just the core of the procession in the still white courtyard. Before the steps of the Hall awaited the few female members of the royal family, cousins and aunts many times removed, and a small delegation from the Church helmed by the Archbishop. Cecilia stood and watched as the procession reformed and entered before her. Through the doors, she could see the courtiers already assembled respectfully inside, among them the Countess of Caerleon, and even Lord Arcard, back from the Western Isles in a rare appearance. Then the doors closed, and she left with the other generals, haunted by a vague sense of finality.

She had wanted to see his body one last time, just to confirm for herself that this was all real, that he was now forever gone from them. But the fall the prince took had been a terrible one, and none had been allowed to look inside the coffin after the healers pronounced him dead. And now she would never set eyes on him again, whether living or dead. The royal guard would keep vigil over the body for three days and three nights, and then it would be interred in one of the cold marble tombs beneath the earth.

The generals came to a stop before the city gates, lost and hesitant.

"I... must excuse myself now, my lords, my lady," said Klein, his good breeding coming to the rescue. "I have duties I must attend to."

All at once they seemed to stir from their stupor. Lord Douglas, face lined with stress and looking far older than Cecilia remembered, excused himself as well with the mention of urgent personal business at the port. The Grand Admiral offered to accompany him, but Lord Douglas declined, brows creased in a frown. In response, the admiral simply shrugged and took his leave.

And then only Cecilia and Percival remained. They looked at each other. Then, in tacit agreement, they turned together in the direction of the castle.

For some time they walked in silence. A light drizzle started, brushing cool and feathery against her face. All the world seemed cast in faded reflections, as if in a dream. And so too was it that she found herself speaking, her voice a distant, pensive murmur.

"What will happen now?"

He turned to face her then, and she was struck by the sudden, unfamiliar vulnerability in his expression.

"I don't know," he said, and seemed almost bewildered in his own uncertainty.

They did not speak again.

o-o-o

"There has been quite a bit of speculation going on regarding the inheritance of the throne," the Countess Caerleon observed, when she next called on Cecilia, more than a month later. The countess was widely considered an eccentric woman, more eccentric even than the infamous Reglays, yet even so, she wielded a good deal of influence at court. Despite her quiet, unobtrusive manner and lack of blood connections, she had a certain charisma about her that had attracted more than a few powerful friends and allies to her side over the years. And so it was that Cecilia, ever since her ascension to the position of Mage General some two years previously, had struck up a tentative friendship with the other woman as well, despite their difference in age.

Lady Priscilla, as the countess had requested Cecilia to address her, was Lycian by birth, though she had been raised since childhood in Etruria. Perhaps it was for that reason the older woman had been less affected by the prince's passing than most. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with Lady Priscilla. The countess was one of the most inscrutable and unfailingly inoffensive individuals Cecilia had ever met, which was saying something, considering the circles in which they both moved, and the unspoken rules by which they all operated.

"I doubt the king will name a new heir anytime soon," said Cecilia.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. King Mordred is so lost in his grief that it seems as if he exists only in his own world these days."

Cecilia could not tell if there was any irony in the remark. "Yes, after all, Prince Mildain was His Majesty's only child..."

"A pity, then, that he never had more children!"

"Mm... perhaps." The king had been madly in love with his wife the late queen, and after she had died in childbirth, he had never remarried, despite urging from many. Had it happened a few years earlier, those might have included even Cecilia's own father, who had long desired the queenship for his beloved sister. But Cecilia's aunt had loved another...

"You seem hesitant. Do you not agree?" asked the countess, her striking green eyes gentle and kind as ever.

"It's not that I disagree," said Cecilia. "Of course I wish there was some way to stop all these inappropriate rumors from flying around. And if there were a second prince, or even a princess, everything would be much simpler now. But..."

"But you were good friends with the late prince too, were you not? Forgive me. I should have realized."

Cecilia smiled, shaking her head. "I dare not presume to the late prince's friendship. But yes, I cared for him. He was... a brilliant man."

"Yes. He certainly was."

After that, their talk turned to other subjects. Cecilia spoke of the new recruits she had begun to train; the countess spoke of Bern's recent invasion of Ilia and Sacae, and of the latest troubles with bandit activity and uprisings in the mining colonies on the Western Isles. Minister Roartz had sent out Klein to be stationed there soon after the funeral, ostensibly to help the Grand Admiral, who had already been patrolling the seas there for some time, deal with the situation on land. But Cecilia knew also that Roartz had no great love for the Reglay family, and Klein was not the first who had ever been shunted off to a remote post out of spite.

To Klein she had offered the same encouragement Lord Douglas had given her when she had been sent to Ostia, for a posting even more obscure than the Western Isles even if closer in terms of physical distance, and lacking even the practical experience of the battlefield. For no matter the reasons for Klein's posting, here indeed was an excellent opportunity for him to prove his worth, an opportunity she never would have been granted had it not been for Klein's father, the Duke of Reglay.

Klein had accepted her congratulations most graciously, and though he had said nothing, Cecilia knew he had been disappointed that Percival had not been there to see him off as well. Percival had always been like a brother to the younger man, and his words would have meant more to him than anything Cecilia could have told him. Percival had sent word that he was too busy. But Cecilia knew the truth: he was burying himself in his work. It was his way of coping. Ever since they were young... He had done the same when his father had died, soon after Lord Douglas had taken him on as his personal squire, more than ten years ago now, throwing himself deeper and deeper into his training until at last Cecilia had invited him to her manor in attempt to take his mind off his troubles -- But things were different now. As children they had often taken solace in each other's company, but now they were older, with duties of their own, appearances to uphold.

Still, even when he had left to campaign along the Ilian border and she had begun her studies under Duke Reglay and Master Erk, even when she had been sent to Ostia and he had been busy with his duties as Knight General, they had kept in touch, exchanging letters regularly. And when she had been recalled to the capital to take on the position of Mage General, he had been there, at her side, supporting her where he could against the doubt and prejudice against her sex. But not once had he spoken to her in the past few weeks, though she had often seen him passing by in the halls and the courtyards of the castle.

"By the way, I have heard that Minister Roartz hired a wing of pegasus knights to assist in the Western Isles."

"What?" said Cecilia, roused from her reverie. "I have heard nothing of this. Did he consult Lord Douglas first?"

"I was hoping that you might know, actually. I had been under the impression that the employment of mercenaries is generally looked down upon among our people..."

"Yes, well, our military is powerful enough that we should not have to rely on mercenaries." Indeed, the practice of hiring mercenaries, so commonplace in the Lycian territories, as Cecilia had found to her surprise during her stay in Ostia, was looked down upon as a sign of weakness by most Etrurians; though occasionally, individual nobles, lacking the ability to raise sufficient arms for the king or other personal reasons, took part in the practice as well. Historically, such actions were almost always a sign of intended aggression or uprising... But to hire mercenaries for the purposes of the kingdom? Such a thing was practically unheard of.

Lady Priscilla nodded. "I thought so. So you think Minister Roartz took action on his own?"

"I don't know. Lord Douglas has been under considerable pressure these past few weeks." There had been some who had accused Lord Douglas of negligence in the matter of the prince's accident, and even worse. Others had criticized his conspicuous absence from court in the weeks after the funeral. The speculation had been further fueled by an apparent break between Lord Douglas and the king just within the last week. The rumors were ridiculous, of course. Lord Douglas had served the king for decades, and was the most loyal knight in his service. But it was only human nature to doubt.

"I see," said Lady Priscilla, and for the first time since their friendship had begun, Cecilia thought she detected a hint of concern in the older woman's voice. After a few more minutes of idle chatter, Lady Priscilla excused herself, leaving Cecilia to her thoughts.

It had been at another funeral that they had met, the prince and Percival and she. So many years ago now. So many years. They had been but children then, and her mother laid still and dead among a bed of white flowers...

She would have to talk to the other generals, she decided then, shaking aside the memory. For even if Percival would not speak to her, she, at least, would speak to him.

A few days later, while walking down the main hall, Cecilia caught sight of Percival at last, and quickened her step.

"General Percival!"

At her voice, he stopped, turned around. His eyes met hers, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"Cecilia. What is it?"

She lowered her voice to a murmur as she reached his side. "Percival. Do you have time? I have something I must discuss with you in private."

He hesitated, then nodded. They strolled side by side, down the long corridors and into the empty courtyard. Once there, she relayed to him what Lady Priscilla had told her. He said nothing in reply, but listened, and the frown on his face grew ever deeper.

At last, he said, "The Lady Caerleon is certain of this?"

"I believe she would not have told me if she were not."

They lapsed into silence. After some time, Percival said, "I do not believe Lord Douglas gave his consent in this. It is not like him."

"Is the situation in the Western Isles truly so bad, that Minister Roartz thought it necessary to supplement our forces there?"

"Even if that were true, this is a matter of the military."

"I know," she said. "I've asked around -- there are some saying that it was Lord Arcard who requested the reinforcements."

"Lord Arcard?" He pronounced the man's name with a faint distaste. "The man is a fool."

"Yes. Still, he is the one in charge of the colonies... And the mercenaries of Ilia are said to be more reliable than most. It is not altogether unprecedented of a move. Weren't there some fighting on our side during the border campaign a few years ago?"

He made a noise of agreement, and she added, "My father despises them with a passion, though. Apparently my aunt ran off with one some years before I was born. And you know my father's temper..."

At that she thought she saw his lips twitch vaguely upwards, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking, for a moment later the frown had returned, along with a strangely troubled look in his eyes.

"Even so, we must be wary," he said. "There are some who decry Bern's recent actions, and have begun calling for action from the Etrurian military."

"It's terrible, what Bern's done. I cannot understand why. Their actions have disrupted the balance of power, destroyed the peace we had known for generations -- what could they be thinking?"

"There is nothing we can do until the king commands us."

"I know." She hesitated. "Percival, about..."

He stiffened, his face and posture undergoing an instant transformation to a distant, blank slate, as if he knew exactly what she was about to say.

"My apologies. I still have work to attend to. If that is all?"

"Yes," she said after a moment, gazing up into his face. "I apologize for taking up your time."

As she watched his back retreating into the distance, a sudden, inexplicable grief overcame her. In the end, she could do nothing but turn and walk back down the long white corridor, alone.

o-o-o

As the months passed, the situation only continued to deteriorate. Every few weeks brought news of another Ilian fortress fallen, another Sacaen tribe vanquished, until at last even the bustling trading center at Bulgar had been decimated, and both lands entirely subdued, only small pockets of resistance remaining. In the Western Isles, the rebel movement solidified into a force to be reckoned with, and even at court in Aquileia, a subtle unrest echoed the violent turmoil in distant lands.

Cecilia saw the king less and less, and even on the rare occasion that he made an appearance, the Minister Roartz hovering ever at his side, whispering at his ear, she was torn by the shadow of the man he had become. He had been an imposing man throughout her youth, both kind and stern at once, with a terrifying, unspoken majesty to her child's eyes. But now he had become nothing but a shriveled old man. At the same time, Lord Douglas was called away from the capital more and more, almost as if the fates were determined to separate the king from even this one remaining support, from that most loyal retainer who had served him for years and who would remain faithful even to the very end. Lady Priscilla spoke often to her too of the distinct factions that had begun to arise among the nobility: those disgusted with the king's growing incompetence, those critical of Roartz and his ilk, those calling for war against Bern, those insisting that foreign matters were of no concern to Etruria. Even without the countess's cautions to her, Cecilia had seen with her own eyes the wolves and the crows that had gathered at the feet of the throne, eager to exploit the situation for their personal aggrandizement.

And Percival, Percival, Percival saw the same as she, she knew. He completed his duties mechanically, as if in attempt to blind himself to the changes stirring all around them. It grew painful to speak to him, painful even to watch him. The prince lay as a gaping chasm between them, and the greater concerns of the kingdom served as a wedge driving them ever further apart.

The court of butterflies she had known since childhood had metamorphosed into a gathering of ghosts, flitting past like dying moths.

And then Bern invaded Lycia. Araphen soon fell, and with it Hector of Ostia. Lord Hector! Of all the people she had ever known, surely that bear of a man, the kind yet intimidating marquess of Ostia, had been among them invincible. And yet now he was dead. Cecilia thought of Hector's young daughter Lilina, who had been her most brilliant student alongside Roy of Pherae, now orphaned and alone... And yet she was not the only one who mourned. That very night, she caught sight of Lady Priscilla, face pale and stricken, a letter crumpled in her hands as she murmured again and again, "My brother! My lord brother!" In all the time that Cecilia had known the older woman, she had never lost her calm so, and Cecilia, unsettled and distressed by the scene, found that she could not watch on.

But the next time the countess dropped by, she was perfectly composed. "We must take action," she declared quietly. "Whatever is the king thinking?"

"I don't know," said Cecilia, sensing the countess's frustration beneath that placid mask. It was a frustration she shared, and understood all too well, as the king continued to forbid interference in these so-called foreign affairs. "Even the people who were insisting on neutrality before have been shaken now. After all, once Lycia falls..."

"It's that Minister Roartz," said Lady Priscilla, a new, distinct edge in her voice. "What can that man possibly be plotting? But what is there to be done? Even now that things have come to this..."

And what was there to be done, indeed? Lord Douglas had been sent away yet again, and Percival might as well have gone with him, and the king had ears for none but his minister. And in the end, general that she was, Cecilia was only a woman, with a woman's fears, a woman's worries, a woman's anxieties. The knowledge might have filled her with anger when she was younger, but she had long since learned that anger was useless. Instead, she began preparing her troops for battle in secret, and continued to bide her time.

Mere weeks later, news arrived of a rebellion in Ostia. This, at least, was not altogether an unexpected development. With the marquess's death, it was only natural that dissatisfied elements would take the opportunity to manufacture an uprising. Even so, Cecilia worried for the fate of Lord Hector's daughter, and was taken by surprise when, at her next visit, the Countess of Caerleon came not alone, but accompanied by an unfamiliar, pink-haired woman.

"This is the Lady Serra of Ostia," said Lady Priscilla, after apologizing for bringing an unexpected guest. "We are... old acquaintances."

At that, Lady Serra covered her mouth with a daintily gloved hand and gave out a shrill, girlish laugh. "Oh, really now, Priscilla. Titles are unnecessary, after all we've gone through. Just call me Serra. And you --" she turned to Cecilia, still rattling off a flood of fluent Etrurian "-- You must be the famed Mage General Cecilia of Etruria. Cecilia. May I call you Cecilia? You don't mind, do you? Priscilla here and I go way back. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine!" She laughed again.

"Not at all, Lady Serra, but..."

"Serra, if you please. And you must be wondering why I insisted upon joining you today! I've only just arrived, you see, but I thought it of utmost importance that I speak to you at once."

"Serra is the widow of the late General Oswin of Ostia," said Lady Priscilla, "who fell alongside the marquess at Araphen. She herself barely escaped with her life."

"My lord husband, may he rest in peace, was the most loyal and dedicated of men -- unlike those power-hungry bastards who think they can do whatever they please now that Lord Hector is gone. Oh! Do pardon my language." But she did not sound at all repentant. "I was too late, you see. By the time I made it back to my homeland, they had already..."

Lady Priscilla took the woman's hands in her own in an automatic, reassuring gesture.

"I understand, Lady Serra," said Cecilia. "I had the opportunity to meet your husband once, while I was stationed in Ostia, and he was indeed a most honorable man. You have my deepest sympathies." She had not, however, realized the man was wed -- and to such a woman as this! "Would it be presumptuous of me to assume that the reason you have come here now is to request protection for yourself under our king while the rebel forces remain in power?"

The smile Lady Serra flashed then reminded her of a fox's grin. "Oh, you _are_ a sharp one, Cecilia. I am so glad our Lady Lilina had the chance to study under your tutelage... But I'm afraid you are only partially correct. You see, I have, in fact, come to negotiate an alliance."

o-o-o

"I never knew you had such interesting friends, Lady Priscilla," said Cecilia, smiling, much later that night.

"Yes, well... it was all a long time ago."

"I must give her credit, though. To have had the sheer nerve to request an audience with our king, and then to make such demands of him, when she is hardly in any position to negotiate..." But that sob story Lady Serra had presented to the king had certainly been effective. The king had made no promises as of yet, but it had been the most responsive Cecilia had seen him in months... Minister Roartz had been utterly beside himself. For a moment, Cecilia found herself wishing that the prince were still alive, to share in her amusement -- had it truly been a year already? -- but she swiftly brushed the thought away.

Lady Priscilla laughed. "Yes, that's always been her way." She fell silent, then added, "I always envied her, you know. Even when we were young... she always knew exactly what it was that she wanted, and took it without any hesitation."

And Cecilia wondered then, not for the first time, what regrets the other woman harbored, that they still haunted her, even after so many years.

Two weeks passed thus. Lady Serra continued to make addresses to the king. Whether they were at all effective, or if the minister had hampered her efforts, Cecilia did not know. But when she received the letter from Roy of Pherae, now leading the Lycian Alliance army in place of the fallen Lord Hector, despite his youth, she knew that it no longer mattered.

She found Percival alone in his quarters, poring over old documents in the candlelight. She handed the letter to him silently. After a while, he looked up.

"You intend to ride to his aid."

"Of course. He is -- _was_ my student. I can't just stand by. Not anymore."

"Even against the king's orders?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

He looked at her for a very long time, until at last, he stood. "If we ride hard, we should be able to make it there in less than two weeks' time."

She broke out into a smile, but he was gone before she could thank him.

o-o-o

The king, through Roartz, declared himself "greatly displeased" upon her return. Despite that, both she and Percival managed to escape any major consequences from their actions. Lady Priscilla, who had covered for them during their absence, told Cecilia that it was likely due to the combined efforts of Lady Serra with her continued addresses, as well as Percival himself. He had apparently sought an audience with King Mordred right at the last minute, and obtained orders to accompany Cecilia to make sure she did not "get out of hand". Roartz had been absolutely furious, said Lady Priscilla, and Cecilia had smiled, and the countess herself had seemed both pleased and troubled at once. The generals' actions had been a perfect opportunity for some much-belated political posturing, the countess had said then, but now... Now, they could only wait and see how Bern would respond.

"I must thank you for your help," Cecilia said to Lady Serra, as soon as she had a chance to speak to her. "If it weren't for your persuading the king against Minister Roartz's insistence that I be punished..."

"Not at all, not at all," replied Lady Serra, eyes glinting in the dim evening light. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill, from a friend to a friend."

"I suppose you'll be heading back to Ostia now that the castle's been secured?"

"Oh, no, certainly not!" The woman threw her head back and laughed. "I've wanted to see the sights of Etruria ever since I was a girl! It's been _such_ a relief to know that my homeland is safe now. I figure it's the perfect opportunity to take a little vacation, don't you think? After all, a noblewoman such as myself must not overworry over petty matters -- why, I might even grow old before my time, from all that stress! And what would _that_ do to my legendary beauty?"

Cecilia laughed politely, ignoring the gnawing uncertainty at the back of her mind. "Well, I suppose you're right, Lady Serra. I hope you enjoy your stay."

"Yes," said Lady Serra then, in a more subdued tone, and Cecilia was taken back by the sudden, bitter irony in her voice. "I always thought it'd be like homecoming..." But a moment later, she seemed to recover her spirits, and said, "Oh, how silly of me! I meant to ask -- you _will_ show me around the city, won't you, my friend?"

After a moment of hesitation, Cecilia agreed.

The weeks that ensued were quiet and uneventful -- almost too much so. Lady Serra began making increasingly frequent appearances at court until she had practically become a constant fixture there. Half the court was at an utter loss as to how to handle her, while the other half was simply overwhelmed by her forceful presence. Even Minister Roartz seemed intimidated by the woman, and it seemed, started attempting to deliberately avoid her, but to no avail. Lady Serra was, if nothing else, a most persistent individual. And yet, though Cecilia might have once found the situation entertaining, she could not seem to shake off her lingering sense of unease.

Her unease only increased when the king, acquiescing to Minister Roartz's suggestions, ordered Roy and the Lycian army to the Western Isles. Cecilia escorted them there, not without doubts, before returning to Aquileia, now with the Princess Guinevere of Bern in her charge.

The awareness of the precarious balance that they were all now trapped in hung over her like a dark, heavy cloud.

o-o-o

High noon on Midsummer's Eve, and the halls of the castle were silent and cold. Cecilia had not intended to come to court, but she had received a summons from the king himself, and she could hardly disobey him now. Not after the stunt she had pulled for Ostia. Still, she could not imagine what need the king had for her. Lord Douglas was gone again from the capital, and Percival with him, sent off on some business or other. Two of the three generals away from court, and she the only one left -- And she had been on edge ever since she had received the latest letter from Roy concerning the Western Isles.

Then she heard the screaming.

Cecilia broke into a run. The clamor was coming from the direction of the main hall, where all the courtiers were certainly now gathered in preliminary celebrations for the festivities that would commence that night. She came to a stop before the grand oak doors, closed tightly shut. From within, muffled screams and the unmistakable sound of clashing steel echoed. Already a crowd of servants and palace guards had gathered, pounding on the doors, shouting. Cecilia pushed past them, releasing the locks with a swift burst of power from her staff, and flung open the doors.

Another scream.

Wretched, broken bodies lying in a sea of crimson and broken glass. Here, a woman, guts spilling out from the elaborate folds of her dress, fingerless hands desperately attempting to hold her body together. There, a man choking on his own blood, and beside him, what might have been someone's head. All about them, palace guards standing triumphant, uniforms stained with dark spatters, swords unsheathed and running red. And at the front of it all, King Mordred himself upon his throne, gazing blankly upon the slaughter before him. Behind him, a masked man held a blade to his throat.

Cecilia staggered back. The servants screamed, fainted, fled. Some of the guards rushed forward, into the hall, while others turned upon her, and only then did she recall herself, reaching for the tome she wielded, flinging her hand out in the ritual motions that unleashed the fury of the wind.

She ran. She flew down the halls and down the steps, to the stables where her horse awaited, and did not note the number of those who fell at her hand as they crossed her path, or lay fallen already as she passed them. She clutched her staff firmly in her hands, and did not think of the few she might save now, but of the princess of Bern, and the many who would soon be at stake.

Hoping that soldiers had not yet overrun the city, she turned her horse's head to the woods and back ways, and rode hard for Percival's small estate, where she had hidden Princess Guinevere at the abandoned groundskeeper's residence without his knowledge. The need for secrecy had been great; Cecilia had told no one of the princess's presence in the city, all too aware of her potential value as a hostage, and the consequences should she fall into the wrong hands. Percival would understand, she knew. It would have been impossible for her to harbor the princess at the Tintagel estates, under her father and grandfather's watchful eyes, especially not when her connection with Roy was fairly well known. Percival, on the other hand, rarely spent time at his home, and was above all suspicion.

She found the princess waiting for her at the gate.

"I saw you coming. What happened?" asked Princess Guinevere, golden eyes wide with something that might have been fear.

Cecilia slipped out of her saddle and grabbed the princess's arm. "An uprising at court. Let's go!"

The princess's eyes steeled. Cecilia helped her onto the horse, then mounted before her, spurring the steed into a gallop.

Eventually they reached the outskirts of the city, and dismounted in a dense, wooded area near an abandoned stone well. The princess gave her a questioning glance, but Cecilia did not answer. Perhaps she was a fool, she thought, risking everything on this one chance. Perhaps the news would not reach him until it was too late. Perhaps he would not come.

"Take this," she said then, reaching for her spare Aircalibur tome.

"General?"

"If something happens," she said, "If something happens, you must escape Aquileia yourself, Princess. The walls will probably be patrolled, but there is a side exit barely anyone knows of anymore..."

Her voice came out steady and calm, calmer than she actually felt, as she explained the details to the princess. In the distance, smoke trailed to the heavens. The city was burning, the white capital of Etruria engulfed in the flames of violence, devouring flames replacing the traditional bonfires of celebration. A red glow stained the horizon as the shadows grew long, and the moon rose in honeyed splendor against the dark shroud of the sky. Gazing at it, Cecilia was reminded of the weathered gold medallions worn by the knights of Etruria as a sign of the vows they swore upon entering the order.

If the prince had not died, she thought. If the prince had not died, if he had not left them here, alone, to pick up after all the pieces he had left behind...

The clattering of hoofbeats. She gripped her tome in one hand and with the other, steadied herself with the railing of the well. A black warhorse emerged from the shadows, veering to a stop before her, rearing slightly with a shrill whinny. Her own gray reared and screamed in response.

"Cecilia!" The rider leaped to the ground, dark blue cloak swirling about him. Without thinking, she ran to him, halting just steps away.

"Percival -- You..." Her voice caught in her throat. Princess Guinevere hovered behind at her shoulder, tense and alert.

"Cecilia," he murmured again, and then he caught sight of her companion, and said, "The princess of Bern!"

Cecilia nodded, then turned to the princess at her side. "It's all right. Please, if you might..."

Princess Guinevere relaxed visibly, then gave her a shaky, understanding smile. "I'll watch your horses and stay on the lookout."

"Thank you, Princess," said Cecilia, and watched her slip away to allow them some privacy.

Percival spoke as soon as the princess was gone. "Cecilia, what's going on? Is it true that --"

She nodded. "They killed all the nobles who were there. Murdered them in cold blood. And the king... they've taken the king hostage."

He clenched his fist. "I should have been here. I should have known -- they must have sent Lord Douglas and me away on purpose --"

"But I _was_ here. And yet there was nothing I could do..."

"Alone, you hardly stood a chance. None of us could have. But if at least two of us had been present..."

She shook her head. "I suspected something... I've suspected for a while... I should have spoken to you."

"No," he said. "No. It was I who should have noticed something was wrong. I --"

"I didn't think you'd come."

His voice lowered, softened. "I rode back as quickly as I could, the moment I heard. Lord Douglas should be here soon as well." He hesitated. "I had to make sure you had made it out alive."

She laughed weakly. "I didn't think you would remember this place."

"How could I have forgotten?"

They fell silent, and then Cecilia said, "What will you do now?"

It was a long time before he answered, and when he did, uncertainty and loss colored his voice. "With King Mordred taken hostage, I have no choice. I am sworn to defend my king at all costs... I must go to his side."

She bowed her head. It was the answer she had expected. "I understand... I too must fight on. But that path is one that I cannot take. The princess of Bern is in my charge, and I cannot let her fall into their hands."

He said nothing, but she could see in his eyes that he understood as well. She reached out for his hands, almost instinctively.

"Percival..."

And then his mouth was on hers, unexpectedly tender and yet forceful, demanding. She stiffened, surprised, then raised her arms, flung them about his neck, burying her hands in the folds of his cloak, pulling him closer to her, falling back against the stone railing of the abandoned old well. He smelled of horse and sweat and the wind in the pines, or perhaps the wild fields of summer, and on his lips she tasted sorrow and longing and desperation. All around them, the dewy grass reflected the silvery light of the moon, casting his face in shadow. She closed her eyes, acutely aware of the whispering breeze, his hair tickling her forehead, his hands trailing down her waist.

Too soon, he pulled away, gazing at her as if he would never see her again, or perhaps as if he saw her now for the first time in his life, and she could not say which made her heart ache more.

And then, like a dream, he was gone.

Hoofbeats again, and she turned away from that silent grove, that crossroads drowned in wind and moonlight. The night would not last much longer, she thought, as she rejoined the princess of Bern. And long days lay ahead.

o-o-o

They remained in the capital for several more days. A risky gamble, but Cecilia knew that to run away with no plan, no direction at all, would mean certain death. Knowledge, information was key.

In the chaos, no one took particular notice of them. The streets were swarming with soldiers; despite all the efforts of the Elimine Church, bodies lay rotting on every corner, and for every maggot-infested corpse there waited ten others, barely clinging to life, who would soon join them, whether from violence or starvation. Rumors were flying everywhere, some outrageous, some maintaining a closer semblance to the truth, but it was near impossible to keep them apart. The king was dead. The king had been taken away to Bern. The three generals had betrayed him. The generals had fallen. All nobles in the capital had been slaughtered, were in hiding, had escaped, or had joined the coup d'etat. About the only thing everyone agreed upon was that Minister Roartz and Lord Arcard were the key figures behind the coup, and if only Prince Mildain were still alive...

News flooded in from the outside as well. All across the kingdom, the various noble families had already begun taking sides left and right. Cecilia worried in particular for her father and grandfather, whose relationship to her must certainly result in backlash to them in some way or other. Soon, she even heard news that the Reglays, ensconced in their countryside villa, had declared their neutrality.

But by then, staying in the capital was no longer feasible, and Cecilia began to make plans to escape to a nearby town with Princess Guinevere, whom she mostly tried to keep out of sight, but identified when necessary as her cousin Gwen. On their last day in the city, they passed by the capital's central marketplace to find a large crowd gathered, watching a small, straggling procession of soldiers drag a captive down the street. As the procession neared, Cecilia bit back a gasp. For she had recognized the captive: it was her friend the Countess of Caerleon. Her renowned crimson hair had been cropped girlishly short, almost as if in protest of the events of the past few days, and she was dressed in the plain white shift of a prisoner marked for execution. Even more shocking was the second woman who walked freely alongside the soldiers, smirk plastered firmly on her face as she flirted and laughed and chattered away shamelessly -- Lady Serra of Ostia.

But perhaps most surprising of all was the look on Lady Priscilla's face. Cecilia had expected sorrow, perhaps. Anger, regret, shame, resignation. But instead, the countess carried her head high, smiling a soft, secret smile, looking almost triumphant in her defiance, and younger and freer than Cecilia had ever seen her.

It was the last Cecilia saw of her before she took Princess Guinevere by the hand and slipped away, unnoticed.

The town that they escaped to had already been overrun by soldiers as well. But there, at least, they had more freedom for movement than they had been able to afford while in Aquileia. And so Cecilia, with help from the princess, began to organize a counter-rebellion group among the scattered remnants of the Etrurian army. She was touched to find that many of her men remained loyal to her, assembling to her side as soon as they heard of her survival. But not all of them did. Some had been killed during the initial takeover; others had sided with the coup d'etat forces, whether because they had never truly respected her as a leader, or out of more pragmatic reasons. She could not blame them, though she wished to. For what soldier in their right mind would willingly join the losing side of a conflict, a hopeless cause led by a woman who had hardly seen any true battle herself? But enough came. Enough that she took heart, and continued to muster men to her cause even after it was announced that the Great General and the Knight General had surrendered, and she herself, the Mage General, declared a traitor to the kingdom.

Still, with their numbers, they could not hope to retake the capital. Instead, she decided, they would fight in the surrounding countryside, harassing the coup d'etat forces with their relatively small numbers in hopes that Roartz's grip on the rest of the kingdom would thus be unable to solidify... The people would suffer, she knew. They were always the one who suffered most, through these petty power struggles of the nobility.

But she had no choice. She was the only one who could do what needed to be done now.

So they fought. Fought, and lost, again and again, and continued to fight. And yet still Cecilia pressed on. She tried not to dwell on the knowledge that the opponents she faced were likely Lord Douglas and Percival himself; the enemies she fought, men who had once been under her command. And yet, despite her best efforts, her troops found themselves gradually pushed further and further back, until at last they retreated to the western end of Missur. They appropriated the mossy, abandoned ruins of the ancient castle that had once stood there, set up what defenses they could, and began to wait for the approaching combined onslaught of troops led by the Knight General of Etruria and General Narshen of Bern that had been reported by their scouts.

On the last night before their enemies had been estimated to arrive, Cecilia took aside Princess Guinevere in secret.

"Princess, I think you must have realized this already... but our ways part here."

"You... would have me escape this place alone."

"Yes. This will probably be our final stand. Your survival is of utmost importance. I promised Roy that I would protect you, but..."

Princess Guinevere bowed her head. "I understand, General. I appreciate all that you have done for me..."

Cecilia smiled. "Don't worry about us, Princess. We won't go down without a fight... and we'll be giving them a fight to remember."

The princess returned her smile, but it was etched with sadness. "Thank you for everything, General Cecilia."

After one final glance, the princess slipped away into the night. Cecilia watched her go with some sorrow. The princess had been something of a friend in the past weeks, her quiet, enduring strength a comfort to Cecilia in those days of despair and uncertainty. Perhaps in another life... But no. Cecilia was determined to have no regrets. Here she would certainly meet her end, along with the meager remnants of soldiers who still fought at her side, even now, even after everything that had happened. She could not afford to regret, could not possibly let down those few who called her leader still.

They would put up their best fight, and take down as many of Bern's forces with them as they could. It was the least they could do. Failure was unacceptable, absolutely unthinkable. As for Princess Guinevere and Roy and King Mordred and everything she had already left behind -- Cecilia could only pray.

But what none of them had expected, could have expected even in their wildest dreams, was that King Zephiel of Bern himself would come.

o-o-o

As she lay feverish in the dank straw on the floor of her cell, she drifted. Hallucinations. Dreams. Memories. There, her father and grandfather gazing proudly at her. A red banquet, a sea of blood. Rotting corpses dangling from trees, swaying back and forth in the breeze. Prince Mildain, cowering in mock terror, laughing merrily at her tirades. Percival, weary and travel-stained, in dim candlelight. Blazing fires, men burning and screaming until their throats turned raw and their tongues curled into black crisps. Skin peeling. Coiling snakes, twisting, strangling. Her mother, white and still in a bed of flowers. Lady Priscilla, dancing and smiling and free. Lady Serra laughing and laughing and laughing and drowning drowning burning. Wind in pines, old stone ruins, sun and stars. Crimson hair, scarlet clothes, a flash of gold. Children laughing screaming dying, run through by lance and blade and hunger and disease. Fire, fire, fire. Lightning and wind and thunder. Broken shattered things in rags and crushed armor, trampled by boot and hoof. A tower of grinning white skulls upon a vast barren land. Bed of flowers white hands undying flame drowning choking black flecks of red.

Silver moonlight in a still white world, and a song of unending sorrow.

**To Be Continued**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer applies.**

**Notes:** So I know it makes more sense overall storywise for Percival to be recruited in Chapter 15 (the timing's more dramatic and makes for better character development). On the other hand, the Percival/Cecilia C support makes more sense to me if he's recruited in 13. So it was really hard to decide which way to go... I ended up attempting to reconcile the two different versions, but may possibly eventually write a side-story thing from Percival's POV.

The "soundtrack" I used for this fic includes: Sting's "Mad About You", "LOVE SONG" from the second Gundam 00 OST, and "Kuro" from the Darker Than Black OST. And for people who were curious about the fanart, I've included a link to the site on my profile.

* * *

The sad, soft humming of a young girl. A gentle stirring of memory, reaching out through the haze.

And then, like a sudden drop of water, clarity. And with it, the pain.

The girl hastened to her side, bearing tentative reassurances, murmuring of light and hope and other things Cecilia was not certain made any sense at all.

But she was used to that by now. Nothing had made much sense in the past year. Ever since the prince had died, nothing had been the same.

So she thrust aside her frustration, her anxiety, those dangerous ripples that threatened to disturb her calm, reminding herself as always of the folly and uselessness of reckless impatience and sudden passions.

And she waited.

She was used to that, too.

o-o-o

Roy came, just as the girl predicted. It was a blow to her pride, a humiliating reminder of everything she had always struggled to prove herself against, that the boy who had once been her student should now become the one riding to her rescue. And yet it gave her a certain undeniable pride in turn as well, to see how he had grown. And how he had grown! Had it truly only been weeks since she had seen him last, heading off into the misty wilds of the Western Isles? If he had been but a boy then still, he had surely become a man now.

How strange it was. How inconceivable.

The princess of Bern, flanked by a young cleric and a redheaded knight, was among those who came with Roy to the cell to retrieve her and her fellow captive. Some time later, after the flurry of reports and other exchanges had ended and Roy had been hustled away by his advisers to deal with other matters, Cecilia found herself alone in the hall with the princess's retainers. The cleric ducked her head, blushing, as she noticed Cecilia's scrutiny. The knight, standing by the cleric in a stiff, uncertain pose, returned her gaze coolly. Cecilia thought she ought to say something, and opened her mouth, but just then the princess returned.

"I am glad to see you well, General Cecilia," Guinevere said, with a gentle smile. She commanded an effortlessly soothing, magnetic presence, acutely reminiscent of the aura the late prince too had possessed. Almost instantly the tension in the air seemed to defuse, and the oddity of the situation struck Cecilia at last.

She laughed, humorlessly, but not unkindly. "Our paths cross again."

"So it seems." The princess, still smiling, gave a subtle gesture to her two retainers, and they stepped forward, the cleric curtsying and the knight bowing.

"It is an honor, General Cecilia," said the knight, a reluctant but steely respect reflected in her eyes. "I am Miledy of Bern, and this is Sister Ellen, also of Bern. We are both in service to the Princess Guinevere, and as such, we owe you our greatest thanks for your protection and aid of our mistress."

Cecilia shook her head. "There is no need to thank me," she said. The pride of the Bernese wyvern knights was well known even in Etruria, and faced with it directly now for the first time, she realized it made her uncomfortable. "I merely acted in the best interests of my kingdom."

"Even so," insisted the cleric, so young and so earnest, though from her appearance she must have only been a few years younger than Cecilia. "How can we ever repay you?"

"You have repaid me more than enough already in riding to my aid. By all rights, I should not even be alive now."

"Oh! That's right! I heard that you had suffered grievous injuries -- I am trained in the use of staves. Please allow me to attend to them."

"Ellen!" muttered the knight.

"Oh -- I'm sorry." The cleric blushed prettily. "Am I being presumptuous?"

"No, not at all," said Cecilia. Her wounds had indeed been severe; she would bear the scars the rest of her life, she knew. Though that strange girl, that mysterious priestess of the hidden village and the fantastic stories of dragons and heroes and ancient secrets, had treated them well enough with her limited experience and resources, the injuries had yet to fully heal, even now. And due to the nature of staves, she could not heal herself... She smiled. "If your mistress will allow it."

Guinevere nodded. "Of course. I must apologize myself, as well. The tome that you lent me... My brother's men took it."

Cecilia shook her head again, but before she could say anything, the princess continued, "As my apology, I thought I would inform you --" her smile gained a suggestion of genuine amusement "-- There is someone whom I believe wishes to see you very much."

Cecilia blinked, puzzled. The only person she could think the princess might mean was Lilina, whom she had not seen or spoken to since the Western Isles. But by then, Sister Ellen was already dragging her off, and she lost her chance for clarification. Still, she supposed she would find out in time, and did not let the matter concern herself further.

So it was that she joined the ranks of the Lycian Alliance army, no longer a general, no longer a resistance leader, but a mere soldier once more. Those few of her troops who had survived remained behind to man the castle. She felt an odd sense of gratefulness toward them, and did not think of those she had left behind, but of the paths that stretched ever onward.

As they headed deeper into the desert, into the ever-shifting sands of Nabata, she kept mostly to herself, desiring neither attention nor interaction. While in the cell there had been much time for her to think, and even now, solitude remained habitual, almost seductive. She reflected on the stories of her youth, of songs and histories, legends and fairy tales. There had always been countless rumors about the Duke and Duchess of Reglay and their frequent disappearances; those rumors now began to assemble into some vague sense. Like a child's innocent daydreams, she thought, emerging steadily into the light of reality. How simple those days had been. How uncomplicated. Faith had come easily. It had departed just as freely.

Soon enough, they encountered enemy troops, and her mind grew occupied by battle instead of old regrets. She reunited with Lilina several days into the fighting. The girl was indeed overjoyed to see her, and Cecilia too was seized once again by a sense of bittersweet pride, watching the girl casting spell after spell into the unnatural sandstorm that enveloped them. Lilina was a strong girl, stronger than it might seem to one who did not know her. The girl would surpass even herself in time, thought Cecilia, and yet the loss of her father had changed her; though she remained as sweet and kind as Cecilia remembered, her smile was no longer unburdened and carefree, and the dark weight that now shadowed her every move had become more apparent since Cecilia had last seen her.

A few days later, she saw another familiar face in the distance: Klein, who, Cecilia noted, wore his uniform much more naturally now, fighting alongside an unfamiliar pegasus knight and a girl who appeared to be his younger sister Clarine. She was happy to see them, glad to see that Klein had not fallen against Roy at the Isles, though somewhat surprised at the presence of his sister. Too late, she thought to call out. Trying to catch another glimpse of them, she urged her horse forward, ignoring the sand that pelted at her skin despite the head covering wrapped protectively about her face. The scorching wind whipped at her clothes, and clouds of dust and sand whirled through the air. Her horse stumbled, sank. For a brief moment, her vision cleared again.

Her voice caught halfway in her throat.

A mirage, she thought, as sand obscured her view again and Lilina shouted a warning. A moment later, the enemy soldier fell to a bolt of lightning.

Cecilia lifted a hand to her head. No fever dream, no vision of delirium was this.

But it could not be him. Not Percival.

Nearby, a soldier cried out in pain, and she turned her thoughts back to the battle, raising her staff in the direction of the injured man.

That night, she could not sleep, but listened to the wind howling outside her tent.

o-o-o

Days passed. Even with the guidance of the mysterious young priestess, progress was slow as their large group struggled through wind and dunes, and the enemies who came attacking from sky and earth under cover of the sandstorm only hindered them further.

She had not thought of Percival since their parting on the night of the coup, but thoughts of him consumed her now, when she was not busy healing or fending off attacks. The image of his face had grown hazy in her mind. Perhaps she had only imagined him, she thought, conjuring up an illusion of him in a brief moment of foolish nostalgia. He was not a man who would turn so easily from duty, not a man who would abandon his king during the time of his greatest need. Not a man who would turn traitor to his country, even for the best of causes.

She could have easily asked Roy or any of her fellow soldiers for confirmation, but, perhaps fearing the answer she would receive, she did not.

Almost a month had passed before they sighted the destroyed gates of the hidden village at last. A small detachment of the army had begun to descend into the underground chamber of the ancient temple standing at its center when Cecilia heard Roy speaking to someone before her. The voice that replied was that of a man's, too soft for her to make out the words, but possessing an achingly familiar timbre. As Roy disappeared down the dimly lit stairs, the man turned, and their eyes met.

"Pr... Prince Mildain...!?"

The man said nothing in reply. Her eyes burned, and she continued, voice trembling, "Your Highness! You were alive!?"

For he could be no ghost. She had heard him answering Roy's query, and his presence here was too real, too solid. But his face had grown sickly and gaunt, and the hair he had kept tied back in the popular fashion had grown long and was now braided loosely, like a woman's. In truth, he barely resembled the man she had known and loved. That man had been gentle and kind, and yet confident, vibrant, strong, nothing like the frail, faded wisp of a shadow standing before her now. Even so, she could see the traces of that man she had known lurking in his features, and knew it could be none other than him.

At last, the man said, "Have you mistaken me for someone? I am Elphin... a mere bard."

"It can't be..." she whispered, doubt creeping into her heart. "But you...! No... And yet how could it be... The prince is dead..."

Dead and gone, buried deep beneath the earth, and surely even the mythical power of the dragons could not raise a man from that long, final rest.

"Is something the matter?"

"No, it's nothing..." And yet, that voice, those eyes...

She barely noticed as he excused himself and left, following after Roy.

He looked just like him. Too much like him.

o-o-o

The sandstorm cleared that very afternoon, as they emerged victorious at last from the temple, the Divine Weapon of the legendary sage Athos in hand. In the crowd she tried again to seek for familiar faces, but nowhere did she see Klein or Lilina, nor even the bard who was now serving as Roy's tactician and who had supposedly directed the rebellion in the Western Isles as well. The area was teeming with soldiers, some of whom she recognized, but most of whom she did not. A good portion of them, it seemed, were heading to the outdoor baths that the village boasted.

Cecilia recalled the crowds that gathered regularly at the public baths in Aquileia, especially after particularly big fights at the arena, and realized she had little desire to partake in the raucous chaos of the victory celebration that was sure to ensue now. Instead, she lingered behind, helping several other healers tend to the wounded.

By the time she finally made it to the baths, the sun had already set, and the carousing had mostly scattered into smaller groups and moved to other areas. Cecilia could hear the muffled sounds of laughter in the distance. Still, the baths were not yet completely empty; a lean, muscled woman sat soaking in the water, and let out an impressed whistle as Cecilia joined her.

"Hey. Nice scar."

Though she was taken aback, she smiled in reply. "Thank you. I think."

The woman threw her head back and laughed. "Got quite a few of them myself, but nothing quite like that baby." Then, as if sensing Cecilia's discomfort, she added, "Don't worry, I won't ask."

"Thank you," Cecilia said again, closing her eyes. She did not look down at the scar, slicing across her waist and torso in a jagged, angry red line, nor at the smaller, matching cut on her shoulder. She did not know if her armor had saved her, or if it had worsened the wounds instead. The pain that still occasionally resurfaced was a constant reminder of what she had been through. But that hardly mattered now. She was alive.

After a while, the woman spoke again. "Name's Echidna. You?"

She hesitated. "Cecilia."

"Ah," replied the woman, somewhat thoughtfully. "A new face, aren't you? Didn't feel like joining the partying? Folks around here are all pretty friendly, you know."

"Yes. To tell the truth, I'm a bit tired."

The woman chuckled. "Oh, yeah. I definitely feel ya. Well, I won't bother you anymore, then. I'm sure you've got a lot on your mind. General."

Cecilia stiffened, suddenly realizing why the woman's name had sounded so familiar. "You're..."

The mysterious hero of the Western Isles, champion of the weak and the poor, appearing out of nowhere at the hour of the people's greatest need, just like in the stories of old. The bane of Lord Arcard and the other nobles overseeing the mining operations, the persistent thorn in their side whom all their efforts had failed to eliminate. The figure around whom the initially scattered uprisings had, in the end, coalesced.

"Hey, like I said. Don't worry about it. After all, we're on the same side now, aren't we?"

"But..."

"Besides, I've heard nothing but good things about you. You can't be blamed for what happened on the Isles. Not when you and the other two Generals weren't even aware of the true situation there."

Cecilia shook her head, but before she could say more, the sound of a nearby scuffle reached her ears.

"It was a mistake! A mistake! I had been informed that the men's baths were to the right -- little did I know that they would be blessed by the presence of such beauties instead -- I mean, err -- No no no, you misunderstand me! I --"

She blinked, recognizing the intruder as Father Saul, who had accosted her during the battle in the desert, though she had forgotten the incident until now. She knew his type well, though admittedly never before in a religious man such as he, and had long devised and set aside a method of dealing with men like him. But to her surprise, she realized that she also recognized the man now wordlessly dragging him away by the collar of his robes.

Her face heated as their eyes met, and she quickly averted her gaze.

It was Percival.

Echidna was laughing so hard that the surface of the water billowed darkly past in waves. The woman began to step out, and Cecilia could not help but glance back to see what she intended.

"Here," said Echidna, still laughing as she pulled on a loose shift. She considered Cecilia briefly before winking and turning back to Percival, grinning deviously. "Let me take care of him."

Saul blanched and opened his mouth, whether out of shock at the view or merely in protest, but before anyone could do anything, Echidna had already relieved the priest from Percival's hands and disappeared, leaving only Cecilia and Percival behind.

Cecilia could not look at him. He had apparently just come from the baths himself, for he was wearing nothing but long trousers, and his normally fair hair was dark and dripping with moisture. No words came to her. And yet the silence was unbearable.

After a moment, she heard him turn, and she rose from the water, unthinking.

"Wait!"

His footsteps halted. She hastily dried herself and pulled on her own white slip, suddenly all too aware of the distance between them. She hesitated, then approached.

"General Percival."

He did not turn. "... Cecilia. Have your injuries healed?"

It was him. It was truly him. And so he had heard... And yet, why? Why?

But in the end, she said only, "Mm. I managed to survive somehow."

"I see," he said, still refusing to look at her, and for a long time they did not speak. Her heart brimmed with confusion, overflowing with a whirlpool of questions, questions she could not seem to bring herself to voice out loud. She gazed out upon the desert and shivered. The overwhelming heat of the day had dissipated by now, and even the flickering torchlight surrounding the baths faded to insignificance against the vast emptiness. A different glow pooled low and warm within her, and moonlight cast an illusory pall across the still, silent land. Drifting through the air was the faint perfume of jasmine, those distant cousins of the Ilian starflowers... The scene seemed to her strange and alien, so unlike the howling winds and raging sands she had grown accustomed to over the past weeks. Like another world entirely, a world in which there was only she, and he, and the dark and endless dunes.

At last, he said, "I'm sorry. I was there, and yet I could not go to your aid."

She shook her head automatically. "No. You only did what you had to. Please, don't worry about it."

"Thank you for saying that." Another, tremulous moment, and then he said, "I plan to make up for it with my work from now on."

"Yes," she said. "I look forward to it."

There seemed little more to say after that, and they parted ways. For a long time afterwards, she wondered why she did not ask him -- about Etruria, about the prince. About everything that would never be the same again.

o-o-o

Their exodus from the desert was easier than their coming, now that the storm had stilled, and their enemies scattered, though once or twice they encountered wayward bandit groups in the sands. In the days that followed, she often saw Percival, usually with Klein, and sometimes with a young dancer girl she did not recognize. A girl bubbling with life and enthusiasm, vivid and fearless. According to Lilina, she had been part of the resistance group on the Western Isles, alongside Echidna and the man who called himself Elphin.

Cecilia had watched the tactician-cum-bard when she could. More and more she had grown convinced that he was the prince they had all thought lost to them forever. He was constantly avoiding her, though he spoke freely with the other members of the army, and sang and played often for their small evening gatherings. And though Lilina had told her that it was the dancer who had persuaded Percival to turn sides, Cecilia could not believe it of him. He was not such a man. But if the prince were alive, if Percival had discovered this fact...

And yet who was this dancer girl, that she might have possessed such vital information? How could the prince have been aiding the resistance forces these past months, justified as they were in their actions, against his own country? Why, if he was still alive, had he so casually abandoned his people to the machinations of wolves... And Elphin seemed to avoid Klein and Percival just as much as he avoided her.

Nothing added up.

She watched Percival as well. She had the sense that he, too, was avoiding her... Something about him had changed, she thought. But she could not place it. She saw him sometimes eyeing the dancer with a look of what anyone else might have mistaken as sheer exasperation, and yet that she recognized as tinged with a growing, reluctant fondness. Cecilia could not tell if that fact bothered her, and if it did, why.

Once, after Saul had approached her yet another time -- though she was hardly his only or even his main object of attention, she had to admit that the man's persistence was beginning to try even her considerable patience -- the abrupt tingling sense of having fallen under the intense scrutiny of a third party grabbed hold of her. But when she whirled around, she saw only Percival in the distance, impassively coaching Saul's young bodyguard in her training with the bow. A plain, gangly girl, tall and awkward and uncertain, though it was clear even to Cecilia that she had talent. The girl blushed as Percival leaned over to adjust her grip. At that, Cecilia could not resist sneaking a glance at Saul, whose attention had also been drawn toward the pair. His mouth had dropped wide open. Cecilia bit back the laughter that threatened to bubble up within her. Soon enough, Saul seemed to remember himself, and wandered off in a somewhat dazed manner, still shaking his head.

How like him, thought Cecilia of Percival. No different from her father and grandfather after all -- Cecilia hid her smile behind a hand as the thought prompted memories of that long ago incident...

Sudden suspicion took root. Amusement fled, transforming into creeping bewilderment.

Apprehension returned to her then, haunting, obstinate, insistent.

As they approached the border, the dry sands of the desert began to give way to scattered foliage, withered and brown. The long summer was coming at last to an end, giving way to the chill winds of autumn. Harvest season, and yet as they rode through the countryside, engaging the border troops, Cecilia knew there would be little yield to celebrate this year. The earlier fighting between the coup d'etat forces and her own men had carved a swath of destruction through the famed southern verdure. With her own eyes she had seen the boundless fields burn to the ground, and with her own eyes now she saw the black, barren remains of once fertile land.

Even after they reclaimed the border fort, the hostilities did not cease. Countless once honest farmers had turned to looting and pillaging. More than once their steadily growing army was asked for aid by the villages they passed, and yet even their own soldiers often had to be disciplined for questionable behavior -- behavior that might have even called for execution in a stricter army. Roy was too kind, thought Cecilia, and the army's resources limited. She had heard that Ostia had nearly emptied its sizable coffers by now, and the other, smaller Lycian territories could hardly afford any further expenditures, with their own lands no doubt in just as much ruin. And the longer their army lingered in any one place, the greater the land and the people felt the burden. Roy and his advisers must have realized it as well; the troops pressed on in greater haste than ever before, marching relentlessly toward Aquileia.

The deeper into the kingdom they rode, the deeper the devastation grew. How little time it had taken to destroy hundreds of years of prosperity in a single blow! thought Cecilia. And how much more time would it take to recover? How many months, how many years would be needed to heal the losses of mere weeks of violence?

Even if Mildain were -- even if the prince were truly still alive --

But she could not allow herself to give in to such thoughts. Still, she knew she was not the only one who doubted. She had noticed the distant cast of Percival's eyes in the passing weeks, and found herself frightened by what it might mean.

Driven by a vague sense of urgency, she sought him out at last. He was alone, his countenance pensive and preoccupied. She spoke, moved by some strange, unfamiliar impulse. "Is something the matter? General Percival."

It was the first time they had spoken since leaving the desert, and yet still he would not look at her or acknowledge her. "The village that we passed through a while ago. It had really fallen into ruin."

"... So it had," she said quietly.

"That is probably the case all across the continent," he said. "Because of this war."

Uncertainty whispered in her heart. She could not gauge the tone of his voice. This distance that was not distance. "Mm..."

He turned to her then, startling her. When he spoke, it was with his old firmness. "We must put an end to this conflict soon. For the sake of those who cannot defend themselves."

As ever, his conviction gave her heart, reminding her of days of old. Those simple, uncomplicated days. "Yes."

But it could not ease her doubts.

She found herself drawn to him again some days later, determination congealing within her, compelling albeit obscure in purpose. She knew his habits well, knew well his daily regimen, and came upon him in the relative quiet before dawn, exactly where she had expected.

"General Percival. May I have a word with you?"

He had pretended not to notice her presence, but upon hearing her voice he could no longer ignore her, and set aside his sword. "What is it?"

She only smiled. "Still keeping up with your training, I see."

"Of course. It would not do for us to become lax, though we fight, for now, under different standards."

"Different standards..." she murmured. But then she continued, somewhat slyly, "I've seen you working with that young archer. I suppose it truly is difficult for a man like you to break old habits."

He did not respond.

"I really am grateful," she said, softening. "You and Lord Douglas were the ones who taught me everything I know."

"Hardly. Duke Reglay and..."

"Everything that _matters_."

Again he had no response. She took a deep breath, sighed. "You've done so much for me. Not just me, but every single person you've ever taken under your wing... Even now, your men admire and respect you greatly." It was not quite what she had intended to say.

"I wonder," he said. "If they knew --" He did not finish the sentence.

"I was surprised to see you here," said Cecilia, in attempt to fill the ensuing silence. "I didn't think I would ever..." She trailed off, lost in thought. At last, she gathered up her courage and said, "Percival. Have you met the tactician of this army?"

He considered her for some time before replying, with a careful, deliberate distance. "I have not."

"He is said to be a bard from the Western Isles, though I have heard some say he must be a nobleman's son in disguise. A rather interesting man, don't you think?"

"I would not know. I pay little heed to such rumors."

He was a terrible liar. That much, at least, had not changed. She knew, too, that it would be useless to pursue the subject.

"That night," she began instead, then hesitated. "That night, I..."

But when she saw his expression then, she could not bring herself to continue. For there, written plainly on his face, was tender regret, twisted with something chilling, final, untouchable.

"There will never be another man his equal," he said, and in that moment she understood the change she had sensed but been unable to pinpoint for so long.

Despite the distance, there was no longer any hesitation in his eyes.

o-o-o

In a rather perverse way, it was that conversation that finally gave her the confidence to confront the man who called himself Elphin. Anger and frustration joined forces, overpowering the last remnants of patience and common sense within her. She waited for her chance, and when one presented itself, just a few days' ride from Aquileia, Cecilia seized upon it instantly.

"Sir Elphin!" she called out, and decided that it surely could not be her imagination when he turned with a vague but unmistakably cornered look on his face.

He waited until she had caught up to him before saying, in a polite and distant tone, "Is there something I can help you with, General Cecilia?"

"Have you ever had a chance to come to Etruria before?" she asked, equally polite in her manner. Two could play at this game, after all.

He paused, seeming to consider his answer, before he replied. "Not yet... I have instead had the honor to be traveling through the Western Isles."

"... Well then," she said, undaunted. How could she be, after all those years of knowing him, years of slippery banter and subtle teasing and purposely ambiguous exchanges? "Do you know about the three Etrurian Generals?"

He hesitated again. "Indeed I have the honor of possessing this knowledge. Other than you, the Mage General, there are the two known as the Great General and the Knight General, but..."

"You are very knowledgeable."

"In the line of work I am blessed with... such things naturally reach my ear."

Slippery indeed, she thought. Just as slippery as she remembered him to be. But she had no intention of giving up the chase just yet. "Playing dumb to the end, are you? In that case, I have an idea as well."

To that, he had no response. She pressed forward, immediately swooping in on the attack.

"I wonder," she said, "if I might be allowed to see that right shoulder you are so conveniently hiding with your hair. If you are but a mere bard as you say, there shouldn't be any scar from a powerful hit of magic there, should there...!" Cecilia stepped forward, a part of her fully intending to grab him by force if necessary, as inappropriate as that might be. A year ago she could not have dreamed of overpowering him by physical strength alone. She would not have even dared. How she had panicked, all those years ago, when in a moment of misdirected ire the spell had flown forth out of her control -- How they had laughed, afterwards. But now he had grown so frail. So vulnerable.

She steeled herself against pity, against grief. "Now then..."

For a long time they stood there, locked in a standstill. At last, he sighed, and the polite, ignorant mask slipped from his face. She watched on intently, heart beating so fast she felt she could hardly breathe.

"... Cecilia. You're a terribly stubborn one, aren't you?"

She could not restrain the gasp that escaped her then. "So it is you after all, Prince Mildain!" Something that might have been fury overcame her, and the words she had been holding back for so long tumbled from her lips without stop. "Why have you become like this? Why -- why did you not tell me you were alive!"

Any other man, she thought, as the tears filled her eyes, and she might have slapped him. Any other man...

"I didn't want to get you involved," Mildain said quietly. "But I suppose it can't be helped now."

But she turned on her heel and stormed away without another word. She would not hear his explanations, which would no doubt be perfectly, frustratingly reasonable, those endless excuses of his that he never seemed to have any shortage of -- She would not. Not now, not ever again.

Percival had known, she thought. He must have known. That was why...

Such fools they all were, she thought. Such poor, silly fools.

She could not bear for them to see her weep.

o-o-o

Upon their arrival at the capital, Cecilia was astonished to find the streets emptied entirely of soldiers. It was nothing like the bustling, festive Aquileia of her memories, and yet neither was it the brutal, lawless mockery of a city she had left behind mere months ago. The people were starving, but they lived. The arenas and the bathhouses had been abandoned, but the marketplace still operated, though the crowds were thinner and quieter than they had ever been before.

They soon learned that the coup d'etat forces had retreated to the castle due to the dissent the Church had been stirring among the people. Roartz and Arcard feared the possibility of a popular uprising, unlikely as one might be. The spirits of the people had largely been cowed in the chaotic aftermath of the Midsummer's bloodbath. It would take more than discontent to rouse them to action now, Cecilia knew. But Roartz and Arcard had always been cowards. Now that they were no longer on the offensive, in a position of relative strength, that very quality would work to Roy's advantage.

The preparations for the assault on the castle had almost been completed when Father Saul approached her yet again. Cecilia received him with some bemusement; she had been certain she had frightened him off for good. However, as Saul nervously clarified to her before she could say anything, he had merely dropped by to relay a piece of encouraging news: her friend the Countess of Caerleon was still alive, held hostage with the king and a few other nobles. Before Cecilia could question Saul further, however, he was gone.

But she had no time to ponder how he, of all people, had come by such information. Though the golden sun of Etruria still flew proudly above the white towers of the castle, the throne within was empty of its rightful king, and inside its walls laid wait the men of Bern who had taken him captive.

The attack commenced at first light.

A pang of nostalgia struck Cecilia as they stormed through the doors, fighting shoulder to shoulder through familiar halls. Cecilia tried not to dwell on the last time she had stepped foot in them, and of everything that had occurred since. The soldiers of Bern fought fiercely, but slowly, step by step, the Lycian Alliance army began to push them back.

As her division neared the throne room, she encountered yet another familiar sight: Great General Douglas, fully armored, fighting with full force against all those who tried to pass him. Against _them_, she realized. And though she should not have been surprised, she cried out. He turned, and his face lit momentarily in recognition. "Cecilia, is it..."

"Lord Douglas," she said, struggling for words even as she blasted a spell at a nearby soldier. "Why is someone of your stature fighting for the coup d'etat forces..."

Even now, with victory on the horizon, the coup d'etat on the brink of collapse. He was the Great General, the pride of Etruria, the man to whom all men aspired. He had been in the perfect position to strike back against the traitors in their midst. He could have done something, anything --

But he had not. Even now... Cecilia had never believed him a man of inaction. But clearly, she had been mistaken.

"It is His Majesty whom I consider. I shall not allow any harm or incident to his person."

She stared at him in utter amazement, beginning to grasp his meaning. "But if this continues, Etruria will become nothing but a puppet state of Bern! Can there be a king without a country? If a country falls, so will its power. As time flows on, they will vanish even from the hearts from men!"

Everything they had struggled for, suffered for, everything they had sacrificed, everything they had achieved. All gone. All amounting to nothing. All crumbling away to dust, forever forgotten. Could he not see what he was doing? To himself, to them, to Etruria --

"If it is the fate of our kingdom to expire here, then it cannot be helped."

"How can you say that..." She could not believe it. She could not believe it of him. Of the man whom they had all looked up to ever since they were children, the man she had both resented and admired in turn. That old anger now arose. "That is mere sophistry! For the sake of our country, for the sake of our people, we as individuals may suffer blows and falls -- But fighting is our duty. The Etrurian army exists for the kingdom. We are not His Majesty's private soldiers!"

He said nothing for some time, fending off a young swordsman nearby before turning back to her. "... It is a difference of perspective. No, perhaps I should call it a difference in our ways of life. You will continue down your way. That is fine. I will continue walking down mine."

What about the prince? she almost shouted then. For Lord Douglas, too, must have known. His strange behavior in the months after the funeral... He had known.

The sense of betrayal that had been growing in her for months ran deep and bitter. She pushed past him, leaving him to the soldiers behind her, unwilling to face the man she considered one of her most valued mentors, unwilling to watch him die before her eyes for nothing but his own mulish pride, pride which had cost so many lives already. He would call her weak for it, perhaps. But she could not fight him. Not when things had come to this.

She ran on. She had been fighting on her own for so long already, and yet only now did she realize just how very alone she had become.

So be it, she thought. She would fight on alone.

Leaping over the bodies lying in her way, she saw, with a sudden thrill of apprehension, that the doors to the throne room had already been breached. She rushed in. Inside, the fighting was well under way. The floor was slippery with blood.

Above the din rose a familiar, arrogant voice. "Well, well. If it isn't His Excellency, Percival the Traitor."

General Narshen of Bern, whom she had thwarted in Ostia, and who had again been her opponent at Missur. Cecilia strained to find him in the confusion.

"Joining you bastards, even if temporarily, was the biggest mistake of my life... Now, for that error, I shall defeat you!"

Another familiar voice, comforting in its uncharacteristically brash resolution.

She ducked past a pair of dueling spearmen, readying a spell in her mind. "Percival!"

She reached them just in time to see Narshen thrust his spear in a downward arc. Percival blocked the blow with his sword. The blade broke from the impact, hurtled through the air. Percival stumbled back. Narshen laughed and pressed forward. But when he saw her, he stepped back in shock.

"You're..." Then he smirked. "Hmph. Haven't had enough yet, I see. Did you come to be defeated by me again?"

Percival took advantage of his opponent's distraction to grab a sword from a nearby body. Cecilia smiled thinly. "The one who defeated me was King Zephiel. Not you."

Narshen bristled. "In that case, I'll let you experience it now -- my true strength!"

With a great cry, he rushed at her. She raised her hand, chanting, unleashing her spell. Beside her, Percival leaped forward. His blade plunged into Narshen's body just as a vortex of slicing wind engulfed the man.

The man fell, thrashing, screaming incoherent epithets.

And then he was still.

All around them, the soldiers of Bern continued to fall. Outside, the clamor of battle continued to echo. But Percival and Cecilia stood alone in the chaos, breathing heavily, joined in silent victory over the body of their enemy. The late afternoon light shone through the stained glass windows behind the empty throne, steeping the room in a warm glow, disguising the stains on the walls.

"That was reckless of you," said Percival.

She had been determined to ignore him. And now, she did not know what to say.

"No more than it was of you," she replied at last, biting back a wince of pain from her throbbing scar. After a moment, she added, "Besides, I -- trusted you."

She glanced up at him, thinking of Douglas, of Mildain, and he must have guessed the reason for her distress -- though how, she could hardly imagine -- for he returned her look with an expression of understanding, and perhaps apology.

Cecilia turned her gaze back to the wall. "I still haven't forgiven you," she said. "Either of you."

But he remained at her side until Roy arrived, some time later, and declared the castle theirs once more.

o-o-o

Just as Saul had said, Cecilia found Lady Priscilla waiting with the other captives. When the king's well-being had been assured and things had settled down somewhat, she pulled the older woman aside.

"My lady. You survived."

"As did you, I see," answered Lady Priscilla, smiling. Her cropped hair had not yet grown back out, and Cecilia again noted the sweet, girlish look it lent her, so different from the cool, refined beauty she had cultivated in the past.

"I thought they had..." Cecilia paused. "I saw you with the Lady Serra of Ostia."

"Ah. We had taken refuge with an old mutual acquaintance of ours..." Lady Priscilla looked into the distance, lost in thought. Then she smiled again, somewhat wryly. "But, well, she betrayed our location to Minister Roartz."

"I thought you were friends."

"Yes. I suppose you could say that."

"Then why...?"

"She always knew exactly what she wanted," murmured Lady Priscilla. "I understand now. It was Ostia's freedom she desired."

Cecilia frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Certainly she appreciated our aid in driving Bern away, but I imagine it did not sit too well with her that Ostia had been made a protectorate of Etruria in the process."

"I see. But... it was the only way -- and surely that did not warrant --"

"She only had Ostia's future in mind," Lady Priscilla said gently. "From what I have gathered, she made a deal with Minister Roartz: in exchange for her aid in obtaining the support of Ostia, he would withdraw the troops we had left stationed there. She must have convinced him that, as General Oswin's widow, she had the power to influence the soldiers who had been under his command... She turned me in as a gesture of good faith. Minister Roartz ordered the withdrawal immediately."

"I see," said Cecilia again.

"But soon afterwards, she slipped away in the confusion. She had gotten what she wanted, after all. I suppose she's returned to Ostia by now, though to the minister's dismay, she never did uphold her end of the bargain. The Ostian forces have not budged an inch. And of course, Minister Roartz could hardly retaliate. Not in the midst of this mess."

"You mean she had planned to take advantage of our internal turmoil all along."

"Yes, I believe so."

Cecilia absorbed this information in silence, feeling none of the indignation she might have expected, but only a profound, resigned exhaustion. "What about you?"

"I suppose Minister Roartz decided that I would be of more use to them alive than dead. Well, that, and thanks to my friend's petition on my behalf, the Reglays threatened to take action should anything befall me."

That explained the Reglays' continued ostensible neutrality. Though, of course, Klein and Clarine's presence in the Lycian Alliance army must have been a factor as well.

With an uncharacteristic hint of glee, Lady Priscilla continued, "But I do believe the dear minister would regret that he ever spared me if he knew the manner of things I have been participating in, right under his nose! Bishop Jodel and the Church were a good help, of course; they could hardly lift a finger against a man of religion -- not openly, at least. And my goodness! What extensive networks the Church possesses, you could hardly imagine -- but I must bore you with this talk. Is there something you wished to speak of to me?"

"Well," said Cecilia, hesitating before coming to a final decision. "I tell you this in the strictest confidentiality. But I thought you should know. The prince -- Prince Mildain -- he is alive."

Lady Priscilla's eyes widened. "Is that so?"

"Mm... I have spoken to him myself." She added softly, "Though I do not yet know the details... it was certainly no accident that felled him."

"I see. That's wonderful. I had suspected that Minister Roartz had a hand in the incident -- the timing was just too suspicious, you see. Just after you, Sir Percival, and Lord Klein had been promoted in relatively short succession. Roartz must have seen it as a challenge from the prince, an attempt to begin weeding out the corruption in court and replace the old guard with those he could personally trust. Everyone knew the king intended to hand over the reins soon... And then, of course, Bern had begun its operations. The prince's death hit us at the worst possible moment -- but truly, to hear that he is alive! That is most encouraging news. The situation is much more promising than I thought." Lady Priscilla smiled kindly, knowingly, at her. "And you? I suppose you must have been most happy to see him again."

"I suppose. Yes. I suppose I was," Cecilia replied, shaken. She bit her lip, changed the topic. "But please... don't let the king know yet."

"Of course. I understand," said Lady Priscilla, and Cecilia could not be certain if the other woman looked at her then in pity or mere sympathy.

o-o-o

That night, she dreamed. She floated, cast adrift upon a vast, warm sea. Above, stars flickered against the endless black sky. Slowly, the water drained away, leaving her lost amid miles of sand and dunes. In the distance she saw a body, crumpled in a still heap beneath a lone tree. She ran, not knowing why she ran. Clouds of sand rose behind her in the enveloping hush.

_Your Highness!_ she cried. _Prince Mildain!_

But it was not the prince. She stumbled and fell to her knees.

_Percival._ She gathered him tenderly into her arms. _Percival --_

His body was limp and unresponsive. Under his cold weight she felt small and lost.

_You can't_, she murmured, clutching him close. _You weren't supposed to -- Please. I..._

But her whisper was stolen away by the darkness that draped over them. And so they remained, swallowed up by the immense, unforgiving emptiness.

She woke to moonlight and a deep and inexorable sadness. Unable or perhaps unwilling to return to her restless sleep, she threw on her cloak and stepped outside, through the shadowed halls, onto a rampart looking down upon the silent capital. Insidious despair seeped through her heart. Lord Douglas's fate remained unknown. Half the kingdom lay in ruin. So many had died. Even if the prince had survived, what could one man do? The roots of corruption and decay ran too deep. Now that the main force of the coup had been subdued, most of the noble families would probably switch back to the king's side rather than risk their own destruction. But such surface alliances meant nothing. The slightest indication of weakness, and they would not hesitate to strike again. And with the prince in his current state...

A low voice broke through her dark thoughts. "Cecilia. Why do you look so troubled?"

"Percival..." She did not turn, but sensed his presence at her side, and wondered how long he had been watching her. "I was wondering what will become of Etruria from now on."

"I see," he said. "That's just like you..."

A slight breeze swept her hair from her face, and for some time they said nothing, but gazed at the moon shining down upon the land.

"However, is there not but one answer to that question?"

She looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Etruria will be restored to her former glory. She will be blessed with the prosperity of old -- no, reach even greater heights of prosperity than ever before."

There was a quiet, intense passion in his voice she had never heard before, and she drew unconsciously closer to him, a powerful, nameless emotion stirring deep within her as if in response to some distant and unheard call. Then, coming to her senses, she turned her eyes away.

"... I suppose so," she said quietly.

"Not just 'suppose', don't you think? We shall make it happen, with our own hands."

Understanding dawned. "Oh..." she whispered, and turned back, her gaze drawn irresistibly to his. His expression was solemn as ever, but for his eyes, dark and dancing.

"What would happen if you lost your resolve, Cecilia?" he said. "We are the Etrurian Generals, the supporting pillars of our country."

"Yes, that's right," she murmured. Then she smiled. "Yes. I agree -- General Percival."

The beginnings of a smile flickered in turn on his face. Giddy, reckless joy surged through her. She stepped forward and took his hands in an impulsively bold gesture. At her touch he froze, as if recalling that invisible third who haunted their every thought and movement. But she did not let go. His hands were rough and callused and warm, solid and real against her bare skin, and soon he relaxed, his fingers closing over her own.

She would not give into despair. They would fight -- together they would fight, and they would win, and together they would return to their kingdom and build the path to tomorrow. All of eternity awaited them.

Until then, she would wait, and cherish the memories of sand and moonlight.

**The End**


End file.
